


I'm lovin', I'm livin' (I'm pickin' it up)

by i_am_my_opheliac



Series: imagine (a world like that) [13]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Depression, Songfic, talk of the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 03:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17758901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_my_opheliac/pseuds/i_am_my_opheliac
Summary: You stay grinning at each other for a few seconds, the dim lights of the lounge surrounding you, and it’s peaceful and good and home, and you have never felt better.--Inspired by no tears left to cry - Ariana Grande





	I'm lovin', I'm livin' (I'm pickin' it up)

_I'm pickin' it up (yeah), pickin' it up (yeah)_  
_Lovin', I'm livin', so we turnin' up_  
_Yeah, we turnin' it up_

The sun is warm against your face.

It hurts to look at it for too long, the brightness almost offending after what seems like endless days of a grey mantel covering the world, both outside the flat and inside.

It always surprises you, how the world has kept on spinning after you crawl out of the cocoon of warm blankets and comfortable pillows that you surround yourself with during your lowest moods. It feels almost unfair, that you spend days feeling stuck in a limbo, an impasse that your brain has pushed yourself into, against your will, and yet everyone around you keeps moving.

But at the same time it's oh so comforting, the confirmation that the world isn't really ending - that no matter how crushed you feel by the weight of your own insecurities, the loudness of your own brain, it's only inside your head. And the moment you finally wake up and there's clarity, you know the universe is still going.

Today is a day of clarity.

It's not perfect, not yet - there's lingering soreness in your heart and residual exhaustion clinging to your legs, slowing your movements, making it just that tiny bit harder to get out of bed and get yourself moving.

But you did it, and that's what made it good.

There's a warm smile waiting for you as soon as you reach the kitchen, still unfamiliar in the chrome metals that you've spent so long fawning over. A fuming cup of coffee is placed in front of you before you even ask, and you turn you head to accept the brief kiss that Phil leaves on your lips.

“Morning,” you say, your voice groggy from the lack of use of the past days and the last remnants of sleep still holding to it.

“Morning,” Phil says back to you, and you can tell that he's trying to hide it, the pleasant flutter in his voice as he sees you up and moving for the first time in days, willing to not only wake up but also come out to the kitchen. “Bath?”

He asks with only the tiniest hint of hesitation in his voice, not guarded but not sure either, and you smile around the rim of the mug at that. Ten years and he still tries so, so hard to ask after your wellbeing, to make sure that you have what you need to feel the best that you can manage, and not push.

It hasn’t always been like this - it took years to reach this place of mutual understanding of each other’s needs, years of well-meaning errors, of trials and failures to understand the limits of your depression. And, of course, years of therapy, for your and for him, years of taking caring of each other both physically and mentally, until you reached this moment in time, the two of you in a kitchen that you have designed yourselves, communicating with smiles and looks and few words.

“You coming?” Is the reply that you give Phil, accepting his offer for what it is, a way to ask if you’re okay without having to say the words, because he knows that the answer isn’t as black and white as it might seem, not when the storm seems to still be looming in the shadows.

But he wants to check on you, wants to know everything about you, help you in any way he cans, and the time for pushing him away for trying has passed. Instead he offers a bath and his tempting presence, and really, you need nothing more to feel more and more like yourself.

_Ain't got no tears in my body_  
_I ran out, but boy, I like it, I like it, I like it_  
_Don't matter how, what, where, who tries it_  
_We're out here vibin', we vibin', we vibin'_

The water laps at your skin, soothing away the numbness in your legs from keeping them still for so long. There’s bubbles all around you, colourful clouds that smell of lavender and jasmine and just a tiny bit of sugar, because Phil can’t help himself from buying the sweetest bath bombs he can find.

You can’t complain, really, when you get to soak in the double bathtub you insisted on buying, Phil’s back resting against your chest as you take in all your favourite smells, the ones that help you feel that tiny bit calmer, more centered.

“We should start looking for shelters,” you say casually after a few minutes, your only focus on trailing your fingers through Phil’s hair, observing the peek of grey that is starting to show up on his roots. It makes your heart swell with pride, the idea that ten years down the line you’re still here, washing your boyfriend’s hair in the house that you built together, a physical manifestation of all your wishes and dreams.

“Hm,” is Phil’s mumbled reply, and you already know he probably looks as relaxed as he sounds, on the verge of falling asleep on you. “Soon”

Of course that is Phil’s reply, why are you even surprised? You’ve been pushing it off, looking for a dog, for a living being that will broaden your family of two - first to finish the tour, to put behind the commitments to your managers, your fans, and even yourselves. Then it was the house, waiting for it to be ready and then waiting until you felt settled down inside, until waking up in your bedroom felt like home and not a starking novelty.

But now, what are you waiting for? Do you still feel held back, chained down by a strange feeling of having to prove something to someone?

How long has it been since the idea wasn’t scary anymore, since pushing it away simply became the result of years of doubts and not something born out of legitimate fears?

Who else do you have to prove wrong?

Your fingers tangle in Phil’s hair, pulling at it slightly, not enough to hurt but enough that he tilts his head back to look at you, the upside down sight of his blue eyes an ocean that you have fallen into for years and years, swam its calming waters to reach a peaceful shore of safety.

He simply looks at you, waiting for you to say something, knowing that you need to collect your thoughts.

“Not soon,” you finally say, and there’s a tremble in your voice that you really hope he will decide to ignore. “Today? I’m tired of waiting.”

_Right now, I'm in a state of mind_  
_I wanna be in, like, all the time_  
_Ain't got no tears left to cry_  
_So I'm pickin' it up, pickin' it up (oh yeah)_  
_I'm lovin', I'm livin', I'm pickin' it up_

It’s a longer than usual cab ride the one that brings you to the nearest shelter, after a quick google search and a makeout session on the bed in between drying down and getting dressed.

“We’re _just_ looking,” Phil warns, brows drawn together and finger raised as he watches you look around, but his own face quickly turns into barely contained excitement. You almost want to laugh at him, the way he looks like an excited child and an overwhelmed dad, not an unusual look for Phil.

You want to roll your eyes at him, want to scoff and say _yeah, right_ , because honestly you don’t think Phil himself could stop his own heart from exploding the moment his eyes lay on the first dog. It would be so easy, to entice him to just give in - one more look at a cute dog, one puppy eyes of your own, and you know his resolve will crumble.

But you’re trying to make better choices, trying to not overthink too much but also not jump into things before being ready - and it’s a difficult balance, your therapist has said multiple times, a patient look in her eyes as you angrily told her how buillshit that is.

Realistically, you know that today isn’t the right day to bring a dog home. It’s not a gift, an impulse purchase that you can regret but shrug at because you have the money to do so. It’s a living being that you will have to care for, that you will have to introduce in your life and that will have to be ready to welcome you two in its own, it’s a responsibility that you are ready to take on but you know you shouldn’t rush into.

Your own resolve almost crumbles when you stop in front of a kennel with three dogs in it, all of them small enough to be puppies, color of their fur ranging from black to chocolate to caramel, and they raise their heads to take in the sight of you and Phil, two giants looming over them, watching with awe, and then they seem to be interested, walking on their little paws to seemingly come and sniff you.

Phil is enamoured already, crouching down to possibly snuggle them under his shirt, and you’re already wondering how you are going to get home without at least one of them coming back with you.

There’s a gasp and you turn around to notice a young looking woman standing behind you, the name tag on her shirt indicating that she works here. Her eyes are wide and her hands are clutched to her chest and you know, instantly, that she has recognized you, that she’s probably a fan. You wait for the slight panic that you have come to associate with fans meetings but there’s nothing.

She shifts her eyes between you and Phil and then seems to snap out of it, her face turning quickly into professional. “Uh, hi. Can I help you?”

Phil is still cooing at the dog, seemingly completely forgotten of all manners, so you are left to talk. “We’re just looking, actually, but,” and there’s a pause here, and you wonder briefly if you are going to let fear hold you back once again before you continue, “we’re interested in knowing more about adopting one of these good boys or girls.”

She smiles, her hazel eyes bright and happy under the artificial lights, and she seemingly nods to herself. “Sure, it’s good to be prepared. If you follow me, I’ll show you the documents we’re going to need.”

_They point out the colors in you, I see 'em too_  
_And, boy, I like 'em, I like 'em, I like 'em_  
_We're way too fly to partake in all this hate_  
_We out here vibin', we vibin', we vibin'_

“A fan saw us looking at dogs today.”

It’s a weird thing to say, randomly in the middle of a popcorn break during a Netflix marathon - but Phil doesn’t seem surprised. He’s used to it, to the way your mind is always running a million miles per hour, one thought chasing the other, a constant buzz that you can’t catch up with. You’re thankful, that he finds it exciting rather than annoying - although, you muse, it probably has more to do with the fact that his own mind works pretty much the same.

He looks at you, one arm comfortably stretched behind your back, and he hums. “She did,” he says, and there’s maybe some caution in his voice, but mostly he just sounds like he always does. “How long, do you think, before it’s all over Twitter?”

“I’d be surprised if it isn’t, already.”

“Hm,” again, before he turns fully with his body, and there’s a smirk on his lips that he immediately wants to kiss, surrendered by now at the unwavering attraction to this man. “Do you think she would give us dog stuff for free if we let her be the first to post a picture?”

You snort, because of course, that is what he would say - this beautiful, wonderful man of yours, so funny and caring and always thinking about saving every penny that he can. He deserves his kiss, you think, leaning in to peck at his lips with a smile still stretched on yours.

You stay grinning at each other for a few seconds, the dim lights of the lounge surrounding you, and it’s peaceful and good and _home_ , and you have never felt better.

“Are you worried about it?” He asks next, his eyes still soft.

You know what he means, you don’t need him to spell it out. It’s a conversation you’ve had for years, a conversation you have been tiptoeing around for months now, since you first decided that you didn’t want to let the million of strangers’ eyes dictate your life.

“No,” it’s the simple and real reply that you give, a tiny shake of your head. “I don’t think I’ve been for a long time, actually.”

He watches you, his eyes searching, and you let him, because this isn’t your decision and isn’t his decision - it’s of both of you, together, another brick on a wall of commitments.

Phil doesn’t ask if you’re sure, doesn’t ask to talk about it some more. He just smiles, seemingly having found what he was looking for, like your eyes held all the answers, and tug at you so that you can rest on his chest.

And you fall on him, willingly, letting Phil take the weight of your head as you inhale the smell of him, of this house and this life that, soon, will be filled with another member of a family.

You can’t wait.

_Oh, I just want you to come with me_  
_We're on another mentality_  
_Ain't got no tears left to cry (cry)_  
_So I'm pickin' it up, pickin' it up (oh yeah)_  
_I'm lovin', I'm livin', I'm pickin' it up_

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, you can reblog it on tumblr [here](http://i-am-my-opheliac.tumblr.com/post/182767845559/im-lovin-im-livin-im-pickin-it-up)


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